I have started three books by Charles Dickens; A Tale of Two Cities, Hard Times and Great Expectations. None of these books did I ever finish reading, though I have picked each of them up more than once. I always had something better to do than continue reading e.g. slamming my hand in a car door for fun. Last night, though, I finished reading Great Expectations, and to tell you the truth, I'm not that pleased with the fact that I did. You see, the story really ends up being a disappointment on a grand scale... 500+ pages of grand dissappointment.
Normally, once I have finished a book, I close it and begin to reflect on the journey of the story and simply reflect on what I have read. After 518 pages, I put this book down and immediately grabbed another one to keep from throwing something against a wall or out the window. What. a God. Damn. Waste. Of Time! If I ever again want to read a book by Dickens, I will first ask someone to read it before me and underline the passages that are beautifully written. This way I can just skip to them and then ask said person what happens in the story.
Dickens is a wonderful writer, I'm not gonna argue that, but the racket he dreamed up is even more genius than his turning of phrases. He builds such a world that you trudge through to see what the hell might happen at the end. The writing between his pretty phrases is mostly basic and he is constantly introducing different characters to distract you from the fact that he has a goal for his wordcount and little else, and! and! he purposely writes dialogue in accents and dialects that are difficult to deceipher just, it would seem, to slow you down. People hold Dickens in high esteem because of the number of characters he created, but these are the same suckers, some of 'em, who don't believe in religion. Those that wrote the Bible created a bunch of different characters too, you know! Big effing deal.
So as I read a more modern book with no dialects to figure out and about half the pages and twice the story, I am glad that I can now give away this book that weighed me down (mentally and physically) through my travels over the last month. Next time someone askes me about Dickens or suggests I read even a short story of his, I will come back with my, now well rehearsed, response that does not suggest anything about his ability to write the English language, just stories in the English language...
Dickens sucks!
- Patrick
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Proud to be an American
I am truly proud to be an American. Not simply because Obama won but because of the progress our country has made to elect a President who is not white; our country had one of the highest turn out rates for an election in years; our country watched the election in this highest numbers since 1980; and our country was celebrated by most of the world instead of mocked. These are all things and so much more that make me proud to be an American today. Regardless of your political views it was a great day for our nation.
As President-Elect Obama asked all of us in his speech what are you going to do to help the nation. I also ask what are you all going to do to help our nation get back on track? If I get into graduate school I will not only help the community I move to but I also have two things I want to focus on when I return. I want to advocate for education because it is a nonpartisan issue. Everyone has the right to an education and having an education helps solve/ease social issues. Second I want to be an advocate for better education and awareness about sexual violence. I have heard too many stories in my life from other people. There is no excuse for sexual violence to be as rampant as it is in our nation and the world.
So that is what I am going to do. Now that I have told all of you, hold me to it.
What are you going to do? Let me know.
Molly
As President-Elect Obama asked all of us in his speech what are you going to do to help the nation. I also ask what are you all going to do to help our nation get back on track? If I get into graduate school I will not only help the community I move to but I also have two things I want to focus on when I return. I want to advocate for education because it is a nonpartisan issue. Everyone has the right to an education and having an education helps solve/ease social issues. Second I want to be an advocate for better education and awareness about sexual violence. I have heard too many stories in my life from other people. There is no excuse for sexual violence to be as rampant as it is in our nation and the world.
So that is what I am going to do. Now that I have told all of you, hold me to it.
What are you going to do? Let me know.
Molly
Six Weeks In
I finally stepped in dog shit. It only took six weeks, but I walked across eight feet of grass and stepped in an enormous, fresh dookie.
Three days later, different city, same shoe, another turd.
Fuck.
- Patrick
Three days later, different city, same shoe, another turd.
Fuck.
- Patrick
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Market day
I speak French with an accent. My accent isn't horrific, but to native speakers it's noticeable. I am reminded of this from time to time as I speak with different French folks in different situations. I like to think that my accent isn't that noticeable, but instead, that people realize I am a foreigner when I begin to search for a simple word and let out a very American “ugh” rather than a French “eh.” In my mind my accent is indistinguishable, but once I speak, yeah, I hear it. I was reminded of this earlier this week when at a market. Molly and I went to the small town of Romans-sur-Isère to visit a friend, Kelsey, who is also from Colorado.
Markets are very important in France. Local farmers come from their nearby farms to set up tables and sell their produce, meat or wine and to chat and get the lowdown from other farmers or customers. Large towns tend to have a lot of markets throughout the week. Every market has beautiful produce, a butcher in a converted van that resembles an American lunch cart and many old people that move slower than escargots as they look over apples and lettuce. The leeks are the largest leeks I have ever in my life seen and just scream to be turned into Vichyssoise with those golden potatoes to the left.
In a large town, six, sometimes seven days a week you can find this delicious selection on display to suggest the flavors of the season for your dinner table. Small towns, however, are a little different. The leeks are just as big. The mushrooms, picked the afternoon before, are just as fragrant as those in large towns. The elderly move at about the same pace as their metropolitan bridge partners. The difference is the “grandesse”of the event.
The small town of Romans-sur-Isère has only one large square and it is far too small to contain a Sunday market. Instead, the market in Romans winds through the town, around a large cathedral and along the Isère river. Before you know it, you have made a loop and are admiring the very same carrots with which you began the brief kilometer walk. As there are only three market days in the town, everyone makes an appearance on Sunday. Four different vendors are selling roasted chickens. Get there early if you want a small chicken, those suckers move fast.
I follow the same course at every market: I make a tour of the entire market to admire and price the produce I need for the night's meal and to see what else catches my eye. I always find something in every market that intrigues me. There is often a chili pepper I do not recognize or a fuzzy wheel of cheese that needs tasting. Produce always fascinates me at these markets because I am able to compare prices and names to American counterparts. The cheese, however, calls me to it in a different manner. Maybe it's the fragrance, maybe the people selling it, maybe the marvel of the process, but certainly the flavors have something to do with it!
Having made my tour of the market in Romans, I was prepared to commit to certain vendors and alter my dinner plans to include the seasonal mushrooms I saw in Rue du Fuseau. I also had a plan for the afternoon's picnic and on the top of the list was the cheese. Having selected the vendor from my tour, I slowly made my way to the quai where they were stationed and along the way buying half a chicken, some grapes, those mushrooms I mentioned before, a bottle of wine and, naturally, a baguette. Coming upon the cheese vendor Molly, Kelsey and I discussed what kind of cheese might fit our appetites. Upon greeting the two “veneuses” behind the piles of cheese, our game plan changed.
A simple “bonjour” goes a long way in a French market and can make anyone smile. From behind the cheese, two women with recently coiffed, gray hair looked up from their conversation and adjusted their glasses. I addressed the woman on the left first as the woman on the right had a lazy eye and I tend to focus on the wrong one.
“Bonjour monsieur, dames,” we were greeted with smiles.
Kelsey asked about Gruyère and I asked about chèvre. Then came the question... “Where are you from?” Damn!
We explained where we are from and the response was, “Are you lost?” Did I mention that Romans is a small town?
The explanation led to some very local cheeses being presented and tasted and a simple pride the French possess led to information about cheese making and recommendations about serving and other flavors that pair well with the cheeses. I finally was able to find which eye to focus on when speaking with the woman on the right just in time to bid her adieu and make my way along the quai to eat our afternoon meal.
Saving the best for last, we dipped into our cheese selection and relaxed in the sun as we finished our bottle of wine. We raised out glasses a final time and praised our educators for their recommendations and decided that our French need not be perfect. Had we known the correct vocab or not given ourselves away with accents, we would not have experienced such a fine showing of French hospitality.
I embelleshed some of this because it is going to a magazine where I'm applying for a spot as a correspondent. Most of this happened... the mushrooms, the lazy eye, the wine. Just hope that I get this writing gig because it would pay 600 bucks. Word.
- Patrick
Markets are very important in France. Local farmers come from their nearby farms to set up tables and sell their produce, meat or wine and to chat and get the lowdown from other farmers or customers. Large towns tend to have a lot of markets throughout the week. Every market has beautiful produce, a butcher in a converted van that resembles an American lunch cart and many old people that move slower than escargots as they look over apples and lettuce. The leeks are the largest leeks I have ever in my life seen and just scream to be turned into Vichyssoise with those golden potatoes to the left.
In a large town, six, sometimes seven days a week you can find this delicious selection on display to suggest the flavors of the season for your dinner table. Small towns, however, are a little different. The leeks are just as big. The mushrooms, picked the afternoon before, are just as fragrant as those in large towns. The elderly move at about the same pace as their metropolitan bridge partners. The difference is the “grandesse”of the event.
The small town of Romans-sur-Isère has only one large square and it is far too small to contain a Sunday market. Instead, the market in Romans winds through the town, around a large cathedral and along the Isère river. Before you know it, you have made a loop and are admiring the very same carrots with which you began the brief kilometer walk. As there are only three market days in the town, everyone makes an appearance on Sunday. Four different vendors are selling roasted chickens. Get there early if you want a small chicken, those suckers move fast.
I follow the same course at every market: I make a tour of the entire market to admire and price the produce I need for the night's meal and to see what else catches my eye. I always find something in every market that intrigues me. There is often a chili pepper I do not recognize or a fuzzy wheel of cheese that needs tasting. Produce always fascinates me at these markets because I am able to compare prices and names to American counterparts. The cheese, however, calls me to it in a different manner. Maybe it's the fragrance, maybe the people selling it, maybe the marvel of the process, but certainly the flavors have something to do with it!
Having made my tour of the market in Romans, I was prepared to commit to certain vendors and alter my dinner plans to include the seasonal mushrooms I saw in Rue du Fuseau. I also had a plan for the afternoon's picnic and on the top of the list was the cheese. Having selected the vendor from my tour, I slowly made my way to the quai where they were stationed and along the way buying half a chicken, some grapes, those mushrooms I mentioned before, a bottle of wine and, naturally, a baguette. Coming upon the cheese vendor Molly, Kelsey and I discussed what kind of cheese might fit our appetites. Upon greeting the two “veneuses” behind the piles of cheese, our game plan changed.
A simple “bonjour” goes a long way in a French market and can make anyone smile. From behind the cheese, two women with recently coiffed, gray hair looked up from their conversation and adjusted their glasses. I addressed the woman on the left first as the woman on the right had a lazy eye and I tend to focus on the wrong one.
“Bonjour monsieur, dames,” we were greeted with smiles.
Kelsey asked about Gruyère and I asked about chèvre. Then came the question... “Where are you from?” Damn!
We explained where we are from and the response was, “Are you lost?” Did I mention that Romans is a small town?
The explanation led to some very local cheeses being presented and tasted and a simple pride the French possess led to information about cheese making and recommendations about serving and other flavors that pair well with the cheeses. I finally was able to find which eye to focus on when speaking with the woman on the right just in time to bid her adieu and make my way along the quai to eat our afternoon meal.
Saving the best for last, we dipped into our cheese selection and relaxed in the sun as we finished our bottle of wine. We raised out glasses a final time and praised our educators for their recommendations and decided that our French need not be perfect. Had we known the correct vocab or not given ourselves away with accents, we would not have experienced such a fine showing of French hospitality.
I embelleshed some of this because it is going to a magazine where I'm applying for a spot as a correspondent. Most of this happened... the mushrooms, the lazy eye, the wine. Just hope that I get this writing gig because it would pay 600 bucks. Word.
- Patrick
First Bike ride in Valence
I am a walker. As such, biking around town is not something I usually do to get around; however, when I need to get some place in a hurry I will bike. I had to do this yesterday in Valence. This was my first ride in Valence and it proved to very interesting to not only bike in a new city but a different country. Until this experience yesterday I never quite understood how different biking around town as opposed to walking. Listening to friends' stories about their adventures being cut-off by cars or chased by angry transvestites through the streets all while on a bike seemed like another world to me. These things don't happen when you walk.
Now yesterday's ride did not end with being hit by a car or chased by someone, but it was quite the adventure. I needed to go to LeClerc, which is like a Super Target in the States only more food items than good items. It is about two kilometers from where we live. I needed to get there quickly for two reasons. First, I had to get there and back in about an hour because I was fixing lunch for Patrick and had to be back by noon. Second, it was cold and the less time outside the less time I have to spend warming up later. One might ask, "Wouldn't riding a bike in cold weather make you more cold?" Answer: No, I actually stayed more warm because I peddled the whole time. It was wonderful to stay so warm.
Valence has wonderful bike lanes for cyclist through out most of the city. The lanes are right next to the sidewalk and our labeled with a green and white picture of a person biking. The cars are very aware of cyclist on the road and share they the road, which is great because you don't have to worry about getting hit by them as much. However, French people have a wonderful habit of double parking and parking on the sidewalk. I normally find this act funny because of the blatant disregard for the traffic laws, which no one seems to care about here. However, I was in the bike lane, where I am suppose to be, only to have a car parked right there. I became annoyed. I came close to being hit, but as I said drivers here are aware of cyclists. It also helped that my bike was neon green, so I was hard to miss.
As I rode I began to realize that cycling is more interactive for me with the world I am biking through than walking. People were more aware of me because I was moving at a faster pace than the pedestrians but a slower pace than the cars. As such a one-eyed dog, which looked like an adorable stuffed animal, was more aware of me (maybe my bike) and ran at me with a bark that scared the living daylights out of me. The dog was like the rabbit from Monty Python's Quest for the Holy Grail, no pointy teeth but ready for a fight. The equally adorable elderly woman walking the dog was a little slow for my liking when pulling the dog back; but I survived.
After the minor yet traumatic run in with the dog the rest of the ride to LeClerc was pleasant. Once I got to LeClerc it took some time to find the bike rack. Most people in Valence use bike locks but often they do not lock the bike to anything. Many people would merely place the lock in between the spokes of the back tire and the frame. I guess, in theory, it keeps someone from riding the bike but does not keep someone from carrying your bike off. What was even stranger was all the bikes locked in this manner were nicer than the bikes locked to the bike rack. I did not understand the way the bikes were locked or not locked. I have come to say the phrase, "I guess that is how they do it in France." a lot to explain these things I do not understand.
I did my shopping and biked home, uphill. I do not want to give the impression that I live on top of a great hill. Valence's hills are no Rocky Mountains or even foot hills, they are little. However, when your used bike's gears decide not to change as you go up that hill it is not fun at all. In fact, the gears and the breaks were a little unsteady for most of my ride but a free bike is a free bike.
This was my bike ride to LeClerc. Alas, my bike ride home was uneventful but it is probably for the best. I look forward to other rides in and around Valence. Who knows what biking in France will have in store for me. I realized two things after my first ride. First, I need to get my neon bike's brakes and gears updated so I do not have any accidents. Second, I need to practice French phrases like "Attention!" (watch out). As well as learn how to say French phrases such as "Where is the bike rack?" and "Please control your crazy dog!"
Peace,
Molly
Now yesterday's ride did not end with being hit by a car or chased by someone, but it was quite the adventure. I needed to go to LeClerc, which is like a Super Target in the States only more food items than good items. It is about two kilometers from where we live. I needed to get there quickly for two reasons. First, I had to get there and back in about an hour because I was fixing lunch for Patrick and had to be back by noon. Second, it was cold and the less time outside the less time I have to spend warming up later. One might ask, "Wouldn't riding a bike in cold weather make you more cold?" Answer: No, I actually stayed more warm because I peddled the whole time. It was wonderful to stay so warm.
Valence has wonderful bike lanes for cyclist through out most of the city. The lanes are right next to the sidewalk and our labeled with a green and white picture of a person biking. The cars are very aware of cyclist on the road and share they the road, which is great because you don't have to worry about getting hit by them as much. However, French people have a wonderful habit of double parking and parking on the sidewalk. I normally find this act funny because of the blatant disregard for the traffic laws, which no one seems to care about here. However, I was in the bike lane, where I am suppose to be, only to have a car parked right there. I became annoyed. I came close to being hit, but as I said drivers here are aware of cyclists. It also helped that my bike was neon green, so I was hard to miss.
As I rode I began to realize that cycling is more interactive for me with the world I am biking through than walking. People were more aware of me because I was moving at a faster pace than the pedestrians but a slower pace than the cars. As such a one-eyed dog, which looked like an adorable stuffed animal, was more aware of me (maybe my bike) and ran at me with a bark that scared the living daylights out of me. The dog was like the rabbit from Monty Python's Quest for the Holy Grail, no pointy teeth but ready for a fight. The equally adorable elderly woman walking the dog was a little slow for my liking when pulling the dog back; but I survived.
After the minor yet traumatic run in with the dog the rest of the ride to LeClerc was pleasant. Once I got to LeClerc it took some time to find the bike rack. Most people in Valence use bike locks but often they do not lock the bike to anything. Many people would merely place the lock in between the spokes of the back tire and the frame. I guess, in theory, it keeps someone from riding the bike but does not keep someone from carrying your bike off. What was even stranger was all the bikes locked in this manner were nicer than the bikes locked to the bike rack. I did not understand the way the bikes were locked or not locked. I have come to say the phrase, "I guess that is how they do it in France." a lot to explain these things I do not understand.
I did my shopping and biked home, uphill. I do not want to give the impression that I live on top of a great hill. Valence's hills are no Rocky Mountains or even foot hills, they are little. However, when your used bike's gears decide not to change as you go up that hill it is not fun at all. In fact, the gears and the breaks were a little unsteady for most of my ride but a free bike is a free bike.
This was my bike ride to LeClerc. Alas, my bike ride home was uneventful but it is probably for the best. I look forward to other rides in and around Valence. Who knows what biking in France will have in store for me. I realized two things after my first ride. First, I need to get my neon bike's brakes and gears updated so I do not have any accidents. Second, I need to practice French phrases like "Attention!" (watch out). As well as learn how to say French phrases such as "Where is the bike rack?" and "Please control your crazy dog!"
Peace,
Molly
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